Ophidian
by Nenbi
Summary: When five-year-old Albus Potter wanders into his father's private study without permission, he discovers something about himself that could change the course of his life forever. (Epilogue compliant - warnings inside)


**A/N:** I've wanted to write a future gen fic for a long time; I'm excited!

**Warnings:** I won't give anything too much away, but I'll say that there will eventually be slash in this story, as well as many more adult themes. Also, as with real life, I will remind everyone that in the real world people change, along with their feelings and, thus, their relationships with one another. If you are a traditionalist or a hardcore fan when it comes to pairings, then this may not be the fic for you. I won't be giving any pairing details until it's written in the story itself.

**The Pensieve**

It wasn't something that little Albus was prone to do by nature – sneaking around, that was – and it certainly wasn't what he was doing just then. No, it might _seem_ like he was sneaking into his dad's private study, but the reality of the matter was that Albus was only really _hiding_ when he happened to stumble inside. He was hiding, because his big brother James was determined to catch him and force him into helping him with his latest prank.

As a general rule, Albus tried to avoid James.

As a general rule, Albus tried to avoid _pranks_.

As a general rule, Albus made himself as absolutely scarce as possible whenever those two words worked themselves into the same sentence.

You see, James Potter was what Auntie Hermione often called Incorrigible, and what Uncle George fondly called a Marauder. To five year old Albus, who didn't really understand either of these words (not the former, which Uncle Ron rolled his eyes at when he thought Auntie Hermione wasn't looking; not the latter, which often garnered quiet sniffles from Grannie Weasley), his big brother was simply one thing: a terror.

Albus loved his brother – of _course_ he did – but whenever James managed to drag him into helping with his pranks Albus always, without fail, ended up on the bad side of things.

Like only last week, when James had somehow gotten hold of their mum's broom, and he'd convinced Albus to get on ('_I_ did it just now, because I'm a big boy! You're not a scaredy cat, are you Albie?'). Nothing much had actually happened, other than Albus timidly swinging his leg over the side after a great deal of coercion, the broom giving a funny little _buck_ into the air (which, coincidentally, hadn't seemed quite so little when he was actually _on _it. After all, he was only little himself), and Albus tumbling back over the bristles, to land in a crumpled heap with a fractured arm and big fat tears rolling down his face. He'd positively _howled_ after that excursion, and it hadn't really mattered that James had been shouted at for five minutes straight by an irate Ginevra Potter, because right after he'd come back from St Mungo's with a clean bill of health and the words '_Brackium Emendo'_ echoing in his ears, Albus had been scolded as well. Not as much, perhaps, but still enough.

There were other times too. Like, that one time when James had unintentionally turned his little brother bright green from head to foot. Or like when James had smashed the cookie jar to pieces when he'd tried to scale the work top, conveniently vanishing from the scene by the time their dad got there, and leaving a bewildered Albus behind in the aftermath. Or like when James had decided that they were going to go on a hunt for gnomes in their grandparent's garden, and Albus had ended up with an angry gnome latched onto his hand.

All of those times James had been sorry after, and had promised to make it up to him, but generally the 'making it up to him' part just meant even more secret escapades and messing around. It was a vicious cycle really, and Albus – although only five years old – had a keen sense of self preservation. Even the admiration for his fun-loving older brother wasn't enough to make him _seek out_ trouble. And certainly not after so many repeat experiences.

This wasn't to say that Albus Potter wasn't a rule breaker, though. He never broke rules on _purpose_ unless he really had to, of course, but that didn't change the fact that the latent Potter (and Weasley, for that matter) gene for causing trouble wasn't lying dormant within him. For the most part it went untapped, but occasionally...

Occasionally, he'd see something that he really couldn't resist, like the door to his dad's study left _just slightly_ open after his dad had received some sort of emergency firecall from his Auror job, and Albus – who was ever-so-conveniently trying to avoid an excitable James, hell-bent on brewing his own Invisibility Potion – would really have _no choice_ but to push the door just a little bit further and slip inside.

Which really was a shame, because all three Potter siblings knew, without a doubt, that there Would Be Consequences for going into their Dad's study. It wasn't just weary scolding or tutting fingers or disapproving looks, but actual trouble_,_ Albus knew. The sort of trouble that not even fracturing his arm for flying off his mum's broom might cause (because, as she'd said, "Thank _Merlin_ I had the foresight to ward that broom, young man, so that you couldn't do something so much _worse_ than this!").

The truth was, Harry Potter's study was off limits to everyone that wasn't a grown up, and even then not just _any_ grown up was invited in. Really, it was just his dad, his mum, his Aunties and his Uncles who were allowed inside. They got all serious and grown up-ish when they went in there, and no matter how often Albus, his siblings and his various cousins had listened at the door, tried to catch glimpses around their parents legs and just generally wondered amongst themselves about the mysteries that the study must hold, it was _still_ Off Limits. Unfortunately, if there was one thing that Albus Potter was, besides self-preserving, and a natural rule-breaker, then he was forever curious.

_Insatiably_ curious, in fact.

Perhaps _that_ was the true reason he'd sneaked inside, all talk of James aside.

There was something deep within Albus that just _wouldn't_ allow him to pass up this perfect opportunity to find out all of the study's secrets. It wouldn't take him _long_, after all.

It wasn't long before his bed time, and he'd be done well before his dad even got his head out of the fireplace, tucked into bed and holding his knowledge of his secret trip into the study close to his heart.

No one would know – it'd only be until James was away somewhere else.

It'd only be for a _moment_—

Albus peered up into the shadows of the seemingly vast study with large, bright green eyes. He stood, one foot inside and one foot out, until he heard the telltale clatter and thump of James' feet pounding down the stairs at the end of the hall. It wasn't even really something he thought about, but before he knew it he was stepping all the way in and pushing the heavy door shut with a seemingly irreversible _click_ behind him. Because he knew that James would be in here in a second, if he saw the door open and unguarded, and for some reason the thought of... of sharing _this_ with his big brother was inconceivable. James was noisy and boisterous and _trouble_. James almost always ended up getting caught.

Albus desperately _didn't_ want to get caught.

The little boy's heart beat loudly in his chest, like it was working double time, and his short, soft-nailed fingers trembled in anticipation against the wood of the big, varnished oak door. There was a bookcase with a few books off to one side and a desk under a window opposite, covered in strewn papers and ink bottles and a flickering lamp that cast warm, low glow over the room. The desk chair was pulled out, like he'd been sat down working and had gotten up in a rush when Ginny had called him to let him know about his firecall. Thought's of his mum froze Albus for a moment, before his brain caught up with him and he remembered that she'd be busy trying to convince Lily that yes, it really _was _bed time for what was likely to be a good long while.

Normally it was his dad who read him a night time story when Lily was being difficult (which was most nights recently, because she just _had_ to be up when he brothers were, apparently), but with his dad busy doing work stuff, Albus had even more time to himself, to explore.

With that realisation calming his jumpy nerves, he went back to his study of the room – across from him, against the other wall, was a ratty leather three-person sofa, with a few slightly worn looking cushions flopped over on the seats and a coffee table stood directly in front. Then there was a rack off to the side of the sofa filled with big, shiny bottles of wine and firewhiskey that glinted in the half-light, and a shelf by the book case, he noticed, with little glass doors.

However, when his eyes caught on the wall cabinet, instead of moving on like they should have done, the lamp light flickered _just so_, and... and—

What _was_ that?

Albus squinted, nose scrunching as he tried to make out what was inside. As if by themselves, his feet pulled him slowly closer, one small, shuffling step at a time until his neck was craned back and his mouth formed into a little '_oh!'_ of realisation.

The things that were glinting were... were little crystal bottles, filled to the brim with an odd sort of shifting silver liquid. It made him think of melted sickles, and he wondered what sort of use that might be to anybody.

Still, there were dozens upon dozen of those bottles in that cabinet, all stored tight together – one after another, row after row, shelf after shelf – and they were dazzling. Swirling and glimmering in the half light like some brilliant, forbidden secret. For some reason, in that moment, Albus felt like he had just stumbled across a treasure. He wanted... he wanted to _reach_ and _touch_ and _keep_, but no matter how much his fingers itched, he wouldn't ever be able to reach that high. Not even if he stood on the desk chair!

Huffing an irritated breath at this and recalling as he tore his eyes away that he had a time limit, he let his eyes scour over the bookshelf, spotting a few odd trinkets here and there that he was half tempted to play with, until he caught himself mid thought. He scolded himself: he could look, but he couldn't touch. He'd be in _real_ trouble if he did _that_!

(Not like he wasn't going to be in enough trouble as-was, at this rate.)

His heart thumped a little louder at that, and it was with a slow bubble of worry that he peered over his shoulder across the room, like his dad might have just appeared out of nowhere to catch him in the act.

Albus released an audible sighed when he realised he was still alone in his explorations, and allowed himself to briefly note the birthday cards lined haphazardly on the windowsill – reminders of his dad's recent birthday ("_The big three-oh,_" Albus remembered Uncle Ron cheering loudly, spilling his butterbeer everywhere in his enthusiasm). He was still nervous about getting caught, and every moment he lingered in the room, the adrenaline slowly ebbed away, leaving him feeling childish guilt and worry over his actions. His dad would be _so mad_ at him!

But, inevitably, those pretty little bottles of melted sickles drew his attention back to them like magnets, and he felt all of his worries slip to the back of his mind. The five year old was entranced – unreasonably _fascinated_ – by this bizarre discovery. He blinked owlishly eyes and moved closer t the high wall-cabinet, neck craning back to catch a better look. It was only in paying such close attention to each individual bottle that he realised two things:

Firstly, each individual bottle had a tiny white label wrapped around the stopper.

Secondly, there was a gap – a spot where one was actually missing – on the third lowest shelf.

The latter point was odd, of course, but after a cursory glance around the room he figured that his Dad had probably had to use one of them for something or other, and that it'd most likely get replaced in time any way. Besides, the weird pedestal thing beside him was blocking his view, and he decided that instead of getting distracted, he ought to just indulge in trying to read those labels while he had the time. He wasn't the _best _reader (his cousin Rose was hands down about ten times better than he was, despite being the same age), but he wasn't too shabby. He enjoyed the peace and seclusion his picture books provided, and puzzling over the longer words gave his puzzle-loving mind a good challenge.

Determined now to catch a glimpse of the titles, and to hopefully put two-and-two together, the boy squinted up at the small, cramped handwriting in concentration. It only took him a moment more of trying before his still rattled nerves reminded him to _hurry up_ if he was going to do it! His eyesight was always a tiny bit muzzy, and the combination of the low lighting and the distance did very little to help him. Even reaching up and using the pillar of the tall pedestal as an aide as he balanced on his tiptoes did very little.

An unreasonable lump caught in his chest, and he felt rather desperately that he was being deprived of something, like when James stole his toys in order to 'experiment' on them.

Feeling fit to start sniffling his anxious frustration aloud, he backed up a minute and desperately scanned the room, considering his options. When his eyes alighted on the forgotten desk chair, he felt a thrill run through him.

Of _course_! How in god-rick's name had he forgotten about the chair?

He didn't even hesitate for a second; he stumbled to his father's huge mahogany desk, covered with messy piles of papers and wrapped both of his little hands around one of the arms, bracing his bare feet against the varnished floorboards in order to give the chair a mighty heave.

Albus was amazed when the chair gave almost silently, the wheels it perched on skating fairly effortlessly over the wooden flooring. There was one large, plush rug at the other end of the room by the ratty looking couch, but that wasn't an issue. The path to the cabinet was obstructed only by the column-like pedestal.

It took only a little while of hauling the swivel chair into the spot he wanted, though occasionally his short limbs faced a problem in getting the chair to comply – it either skidded a little further to one side than he wanted, or the top half tried to spin around, making his feet trip over themselves to keep it under control. Once he'd gotten it into the required position though, his heart hammering restlessly behind his ribs, he carefully tugged his up, using his front half as a lever in order to clamber up onto his knees. He released a deep breath of relief when he'd successfully knelt down, facing the cabinet. The flared top of the pedestal, just to his right, was still about a head taller when he was knelt down, probably standing at his Dad's chest. Unfortunately the cabinet was further up yet, and although the boost to his height helped a little, the tiny, inked words were still unintelligible. He would have to stand.

He braced his palms against the tall back of the chair as he got his feet below him, though in his excitement to speed up his investigation, he almost lost his precarious balance. The chair gave an intimidating wobble beneath him at the sudden jolt of movement, and he lost his grip. He flailed his arms out, turning frantically in order to grab something stable – something steady – to hold on to. The wall—

The wall was too far—

His right hand swung out, desperately trying to catch him, and his outstretched fingers collided with the flared top of the pedestal. Feeling something sturdy beneath his fingers, he gripped tightly and swung around, chair scooting precariously beneath him as he fastened both hands to the upper curve of the cool stone pedestal, which apparently – unexpectedly – curved down, like a basin.

He gasped at the cool evening air in the silence that followed his terrifying struggle, head swimming and fingers tingling coldly in stark relief. It was like a rush of fresh air on a stiflingly hot day, and he took long moments to settle back into himself. Trembling nervously, he relaxed his tense shoulders and peered down at his feet, grateful that the chair hadn't slipped further away from him when it slid on the floorboards. He wriggled his toes, affirming that all ten were all safe and sound where they belonged, before gathering his courage to stand up straight.

The small boy did so very carefully, being absolutely certain to keep checking on his balance. He was edgy after his near-fall, and it had taken almost having an accident to remind him not to rush things the way his big brother often did.

Unfortunately, any sense of clarity froze when he reached his full height and his big, green eyes discovered exactly what it was he was gripping into, and the reason why the tips of his fingers were still tingly-cold.

The pedestal _was_ a basin on top. A smooth, shallow, dark-stone basin, full _almost to the brim_ with swirling silver liquid. And judging by the empty crystal bottle balanced on the far ledge of the basin, it was the same stuff as was in the wall cabinet.

Only this was in reach.

He was touching it.

His fingertips were just barely submerged, and now that he could see it up close, he noticed that it was as if the liquid danced around his digits, gliding about under the still surface and brushing up against his skin until in tickled. Spellbound, he carefully released his tight grip with one hand, his curiosity urging him to further investigate his find. All thought of the labelled phials stored away in the cabinet forgotten, he dunked his fingers deeper into the oddly translucent liquid, noticing with confusing that, the faint tickling and coolness aside, he could barely feel it at all. It wasn't like when he washed his hands at the sink before meal-time or when he splashed about in his warm evening bath.

It was with rapt attention that he withdrew his fingers, examining that they were bone dry to the touch. Not even a single droplet of the molten sickles clung to him. With no small amount of confusion, he experimented cupping his palm and scooping the liquid out, watching how it slipped eerily through the gaps in his fingers, like it was desperate to be reunited with the rest of the stuff.

Albus scooted closer still, wondering just how much was in there. The bottle it had all been held in seemed too small to hold so much, although he supposed the basin looked very shallow—

Though, if that was the case, then... How on earth had he fit his whole hand in there without touching the bottom?

It was this thought that led him to plunging his hand in deeper, eyes going wide with amazement when the calmly swirling liquid swallowed up his wrist, half his fore arm, and then right up to his elbow without so much as a graze of cool stone. Face set into a mask of concentration and surprise, he grunted as he hauled himself closer to the pedestal and reached further in, the barest ripples washing outwards sluggishly as the basin consumed his entire arm. It was only when he heard the _tap-tap-tap_ of James' feet of the hallway outside, and the baffled call of "Albie?" that he snapped out of his daze.

The little boy realised then that he must have been there for quite a while, messing around with Grown Up things in his Dad's private office. He—he wasn't supposed to be in here!

Suddenly deciding that he'd had enough, he pulled at his arm to free it.

Only, it didn't come free.

And it wasn't until he'd turned to stare in alarm at the basin that he realised it had pulled him in, up past his clothed shoulder. Without realising it, he'd gone up onto his tiptoes; the liquid lapped around his collar bone, and was barely an inch off of his nose. He struggled for a moment longer, a strangled cry of terror catching in his throat as he jerked at his arm, ducking his head and gritting his teeth. His chin skimmed the surface with the terrified movement, and—

And suddenly he was pulled forwards, engulfed in brilliant eddies of molten silver, his body pulled down effortlessly as he released a gargled wail. The breath escaped his lungs, the stone of the basin vanished under his latching fingers and the study disappeared in a whirl of dizzying silver mist.

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**A/N:** Please review! Questions, compliments and critisisms will all be equally appreciated!

((09/03/15))


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